


to his love

by sulliphant



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, M/M, OC: Schofield's Wife, Original Character(s), PTSD Schofield, will get a lot darker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sulliphant/pseuds/sulliphant
Summary: He had never expected to fall in love with a fellow soldier.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 15
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

You can always spot a new soldier by the state of his uniform, thinks William Schofield. 

Shiny brass buttons sparkling, helmet polished and clean around the edges, tunic and pants a dark olive, puttees perfectly and tightly wound.  
  
And not a speck of mud. That's what amazed him most of all.   
  
He couldn't remember a time when there wasn't mud on everything: soldiers and trees and horses and houses and guns and corpses covered in it, drowning in it, dying in it.   
  
Schofield raises his eyes to look at the new faces, even though after the Somme he promised himself he would never get close to anyone again.

There were three of them this time: a tall pale man with a terrified look and very dark hair; a stocky, short man with a clipped red beard who looked like he'd already killed an entire battalion of Germans; and last, a young man, no, _boy,_ with a round, kind face and intense, determined pale blue eyes.   
  
Schofield looks away and touches his tunic where he hid the cigarette tin. He lies back on the dewy grass, staring at the soft cotton like clouds rolling by, his stomach growling. His eyes feel heavy.   
  
"Schofield." A gruff voice rings out.   
  
"Schofield!" The voice yells louder and is closer this time, and Schofield snaps to attention.   
  
"Yes, Sarge?" His throat feels dry and his voice cracks. He stands up and the Sergeant shakes his head.

"Schofield, I'm putting you in charge of Private Blake." Sergeant Harris pushes Blake forward and he almost falls on top of Schofield. Before Schofield can protest, the Sergeant is already moving away, barking orders at someone else.   
  
Blake put out his hand, fingers pristine and pink. Schofield stares intensely at them, taken aback for a moment before shaking his hand.   
  
"Lance Corporal Schofield."  
  
"Blake. Thomas Blake." He smiles, nervously.  
  
"Let me show you around, then." Schofield picks up his kit carefully, checking the ground around him to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He touches the pocket where he has the tin, letting out a relieved sigh.  
  
Schofield begins to walk slowly towards the reserve trench, adjusting his rifle so it feels comfortable on his right shoulder. He hears the soft noises of Blake's footsteps behind him.   
  
"Blake, let me tell you something." Schofield keeps his eyes on the ground in front of him.   
  
"Yes?" Blake can't hide his excitement, his voice almost squeaking with delight.   
  
"Don't get close to anyone. And if you do, and you lose them, don't dwell on it." Schofield stops to turn and look at Blake, but Blake crashes into him, and they fall to the ground in a tangle of kit and legs and curses.   
  
"And watch where you're going, for Christ's sake!" Schofield says, irritated. He's about to push himself up when he sees Blake's hand in front of his face.   
  
"I'm s-sorry, Schofield!" Blake's wounded expression makes Schofield instantly regrets his harsh tone. Schofield roughly grabs Blake's hand, and is surprised at how strong the young man is when he pulls up him up so quickly and without a struggle.   
  
"S'alright. But really, you've got to be more careful. Imagine if you did that with an angry officer at the front lines instead of a weary old soldier." Schofield smiles weakly, trying to cheer up Blake.   
  
Blake smiles back, and salutes Schofield jokingly. "Yes, Sir!"   
  
Schofield scoffs and rolls his eyes. At least this one has some humor, he thinks, before making his way towards the reserve trench again.  
  
Blake walks behind him, wordlessly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After watching the film I knew I needed to write about my soft boys...only Blake can make jaded Schofield happy again. Planning to make this a fix it fic of sorts. Comments are always appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for graphic descriptions of gore.

They're crushing him. The air in his lungs is being squeezed out, every inhale and exhale a stab in his chest. 

Decomposing bodies press all around him, blood, guts, teeth, bone, and mud. He would recognize the putrid smell of rotting flesh anywhere, the stinking stench after his first battle etched forever in his memory. 

His body can't move and his mouth is slowly getting filled with the slop of no man's land in the Somme. The weight of the dead bodies sinking themselves into the earth is so heavy he can't bear it. 

Gunshots echo above, the loud and constant _tap tap tap_ of a machine gun nearby. He can hear the distinctive whiz of shells making their way through the air, but his vision is an inky black. Horror overwhelms him as he wonders if he's been blinded forever by gas. 

The bodies are shifting, inching down excruciating slow and putting more pressure on his chest. He knows now that this is how he will die, buried alive with the dead in a muddy field in France, far away from home. His bones will be ground into dust and his body will disappear, devoured by rats. Another unknown soldier lost to the insatiable mud. 

"Help! Help! Anyone! Please!" He begs, even though he knows he's alone. He screams, his mouth filled with the taste of blood and rot and shit and filth. The bodies are relentless and smothering him. He hears the low groan of his bones beginning to snap and the pain is unbearable, worse than when he took the bullet to his leg. 

He breathes in the stale putrid oxygen. His last living breath. 

He feels something warm and slick on his fingers and his stomach goes cold with terror. It reeks of the metallic scent of blood, and he realizes that his whole body is drenched in it, sticky and fresh.

A loud rumble and the darkness breaks, a sliver of yellow light filtering down onto him, blinding. 

He looks up. A gaunt face with dark purple bruises around the eyes is staring at him, blood all over the man's throat like a splash of paint. A rusty steel helmet hangs lopsided on his head, a head that's half missing, brain tissue sliding out. 

The soldier opens his mouth and wriggling plump maggots fall out all over Schofield's face. He can feel them jumping on his eyes, trying to bore their way into his nose and mouth.

"Why did you leave me to die, Will? Why did you leave me to die?" Asks the man with a choked sob, and Schofield screams.   
  


* * *

  
"Sco! _SCO!_ " Schofield's high pitch screams ring in his ears, bouncing off the cramped walkway of the trench. Warm, firm hands on his shoulders are shaking him, trying to bring him back to the land of the living. 

"Calm down Sco. It was just a dream." Blake's voice, panicked but trying to hide it. The world is blurry but he can see the outlines of Blake's face, contorted with confusion and worry. Schofield sits up, his rickety wooden bed creaking with the weight of two grown men.

"Sorry." Schofield takes in a deep breath to steady his racing heart. Sweat drips down his neck and pools down to his lower back, making him shiver. It's so cold he can see the white cloud of his breath with each exhale. 

"Are you alright?" Blake's eyebrows are furrowed and he looks deep into Schofield's eyes, as if he doesn't trust him to tell the truth. 

Schofield nods and puts on a weak smile.

"I'm alright. Sorry if I woke you." Schofield takes a swig from his canteen and wipes his lips with his sleeve. 

"Yeah mate, some of us are trying to get some sleep in here if you don't mind." A groggy and irritated voice complains a few feet away. 

"Sod off, Frost." Blake laughs until something hard with a sharp corner hits his head, eliciting a very loud "Fuck!" from him. Schofield can hear the rustling of Blake's thick hair as he rubs the wound. 

"Oi, watch it! That hurt." Blake clicks his tongue. 

"Go back to bed Blake, we're on watch duty tomorrow morning." Schofield turns his back towards Blake, staring at his hands and fingers, checking for blood. Blake stands up to move back to his dugout, and Schofield almost warns him about snipers and the importance of keeping his head down till he remembers they're still in the support trench. 

"Only have a few hours 'til it's morning." Blake says. His head is practically next to Schofield's, the dugouts so close together that no man is able to get any privacy. 

"Better get your beauty sleep then." He hears a snort from Blake and the rustling of a blanket. 

Schofield finds himself thinking about Blake and how the others quickly took to accepting him as one of their own. How Blake manages to tell the funniest stories, how he remembers tiny mundane details of the other soldiers and their lives, and how no matter whom he speaks to, he's always at ease.   
  
Schofield could never be like that. Always the serious one, with a straight line for a smile. So close to falling apart that he has to play the part of the detached soldier.  
  
But he can't help thinking about Blake's youthful face, still untouched by the war. He has to protect Blake from the war, he has to protect him from the cruelty of it as much as he can. That's his duty as a soldier, as a friend.  
  
Schofield falls asleep for the first time without opening the tin, and he dreams of pink and white cherry blossoms, their fragile and beautiful petals floating softly in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a bit more background on the origins of Schofield's nightmare and their civilian life in the next chapter....As always comments are appreciated or any ideas on what you'd like to see in the next chapters (can't guarantee that I can incorporate them in but will do my best!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh sorry it took so long to update, work has been really hellish this month...i'm not really happy with this chapter but i couldn't edit it anymore than i already have, so any mistakes are my own. hoping to be able to update this a bit more regularly from now on...!

A dreary dawn gradually rises, the thick cover of dark grey clouds threatening bitter rain on the horizon. Men are huddled close, a few dozing off even with the bright light of the morning. Schofield despises the morning cold, the way it seeps and settles into his bones and chatters his teeth, the way it clouds his thoughts and cracks his hands and numbs his face. His wife sends him hand knit wool sweaters to keep him warm, but no matter how many layers of cotton and wool and leather he wraps himself in, the cold is relentless. 

Day after day of miserable rain and oppressive clouds continue until the weeks and months bleed into each other. The vast and endless sky overwhelms him with the truth of how tiny and ordinary he is, one soldier in a line that stretches for miles upon miles of ravaged land, trapped in a labyrinth with no escape except by sheer luck or certain death. 

Schofield thinks about the past often, soft daydreams about laughter, love, and family. But then the Somme calls back to him, dragging him through the infernal nightmare of mud and dismembered corpses, the sobs of desperate soldiers calling out to their wives or mothers among the endless shelling.  
  
He’s a ghost, grounded on this earth but living on borrowed time, until he is called to join the countless others who have gone west before him.

A crow caws menacingly in no man's land and scatters his thoughts, Schofield shuddering as he imagines its black beady eyes staring at him, marking him as its next meal. He hears the loud flap of its wings stir the air and the terrible screeches fade, but the piercing cries echo in his mind, taunting him.

Blake is next to him, rubbing his hands together and blowing warm air desperately into his cupped palms. 

"Check it again Blake." Schofield commands, gripping his rifle tightly. He nudges Blake to move, impatient for the job to be over. 

Blake hunches low by the parapet they've both been resting on, and peeks into the periscope, mouth agape with concentration.

"Just the usual. Looks like the Boche are enjoying fat sausages for breakfast. They don't even care if we can see smoke from their trenches." Schofield's stomach starts to whine at the mention of decent food. He can imagine the bubbling fat dripping off the ends of a sausage and craves the taste of hot juicy meat dripping on his tongue. 

"Wait! Something moved." Blake rubs his eyes and looks back into the periscope, dried mud covered hands gripping the sides. 

Cold raw terror grips Schofield, and he can't stop his hands from trembling.

"It's...a cat?" Blake releases and rubs his eyes again, sniffling from the cold. He gestures to Schofield to come close, rubbing his runny nose clean on his sleeve. 

"You're joking." Schofield waits for Blake to laugh and start mocking him at how easily he falls for his tricks, but he shakes his head and motions to the periscope. 

Schofield puts his face on the tiny opening at the bottom and squints hard, trying to make out any movement among the dark mud and dead tree stumps that litter no man's land. He doesn't believe that life could ever make its way back, so much hate and destruction and death infecting the soil.

"It's to the right, near that massive crater." Blake states behind him, as if he knew Schofield was having trouble finding it. 

Schofield shifts his eyes to the right and sees it, a black and grey creature with fine stripes bounding rapidly towards them. 

"It's heading over here!" Schofield cries and looks back at Blake. Schofield's head is lightheaded, whether with exhaustion or happiness he can’t tell, but it’s as if he’s drunk. His smile is infectious, and Blake realizes it must be the first time he's ever seen Schofield this happy. 

Blake moves to put his hand above the trench to call it over but Schofield instantly grabs his wrist, and Blake hisses with pain and shoots him a hurt look. Schofield lets go, rage rising in his body like a strong tide, pressure building behind his eyes. 

"Are you mad? They'll shoot your hand off!" Schofield's angry features soften with a heavy sigh. "We need to call it over here.”

Schofield begins to make clicking noises and soft mewling noises to get its attention, but Blake distracts him as he shakes and roars with laughter.

"That's not how you do it Sco! Jesus, you're awful at animal impressions.. let me show you how a professional does it..." Blake giggles while pushing Schofield aside. 

Blake brings his hands together in front of his mouth to whistle when the cat suddenly emerges over the top and jumps on Schofield's face. The sheer surprise of a cat flying into him knocks back Schofield into a large puddle of rain and mud, drenching him in the dirty soup of the trench. 

Schofield flails around, the cat’s warm and soft fur smothering him. The commotion attracts some curious soldiers, desperate for some entertainment.   
  
"Get it off! _GET IT OFF OF ME!_ " Schofield yells. He tries to gently pull it off and he can hear the splash of soldier’s boots, but the cat becomes even more adamant in holding on to his comfortable face, and scratches his neck angrily. 

"What the hell is going on here?" The taut voice of their commanding officer Captain Davies makes the men fall silent as he strolls up, roughly pushing aside several soldiers blocking his path.  
  
“Blake, Schofield, answer me!” He demands. A chipped wooden pipe is hanging from a corner of his lips, a hand wrapped thickly with gauze resting on his temple. His glare is as sharp and murderous as a bayonet, and Blake gulps loudly while Schofield scrambles to his feet, slipping and struggling in the mud to stand up. 

“I was attacked by a cat, Sir.” A soldier sniggers but the threat of annihilation with a glare from Davies shuts him up.  
  
“The cat by your feet, is it?” Davies asks, pointing with the edge of his pipe. 

"Uh, yes, Sir." The cat stares silently back at Davies, tail moving back and forth. It hisses angrily, as if inviting Davies to a fight. 

"Can we keep it, Sir?" Blake's eyes twinkle, and he hugs the strap of his rifle tightly. 

Davies moves slowly to pull his pistol out of the holster and Blake flinches, but Davies pauses in reflection. It’s dangerous to let the men grow soft, but killing a creature who has done no wrong? That seems like a wasteful murder, and there’s already enough of those in this war, Davies thinks. And it might be good for morale, a regimental mascot on the battlefield to distract the men from the extreme intervals of boredom and the never-ending killing.  
  
"She can stay, but only if she makes herself useful and kills those horrible rats. And don’t let her be a nuisance, or else. " Davies threatens, but he can't hide his amusement as he smiles and takes another drag from his pipe.  
  
“Thank you, Sir!” Blake salutes so enthusiastically he nearly hits his head with his hand. Davies nods, comforted in his decision when he sees the fierce loyalty in Blake’s expression. He stares at Schofield for a moment, angry red scratches down his neck and shakes his head. _That Schofield..._ He saunters back towards his dugout without another word, dreading the large pile of unwritten condolence letters awaiting him. 

Once he's out of sight the other soldiers cautiously approach, whispering among themselves and examining the cat in awe, as if it was a holy apparition. It meows softly and lets the other soldiers caress it, but after the constant attention from rough and dirty hands it grows bored and quickly wraps itself around Schofield's legs.

"She likes you best." Blake beams, and Schofield feels oddly proud.

"What should we name her?" Schofield sits down on a low pile of sandbags, picking her up and putting her gingerly on his knees.

"Don’t know. Lucky...? No, there are too many dogs and cats named Lucky I imagine on the front...well, definitely not Fritz.” Blake chuckles. “Should we name it something French?” Blake sits next to the empty space by Schofield and starts inspecting the cat’s paws. 

"Hmm…" Schofield strokes her fur, surprisingly immaculate for a cat that emerged from the muck of no man’s land. She purrs softly, eyes closed in contentment. 

"It’s a girl, so we’ve got to give it a girl’s name. A girl's name, hmm...What about Mary, you know, like after the Queen?” 

Schofield shakes his head. “That’s too boring.”  
  
"Victory? Victoria? " Schofield shakes his head again.  
  
"You're too difficult to please." Blake pouts.   
  
"What about Lucille? It means light in French."   
  
"No, her fur is too dark! And she has stripes. Plus she doesn't look like a _Lucille._ " Blake pronounces the last word in a shrill nasally voice, imitating the best French accent he can.  
  
"Now who's being the difficult one?" Schofield rolls his eyes, a sigh of exasperation escaping his lips.  
  
“Oh...! What about Alice? Isn’t that a French name?” Blake’s eyes go wide, struck by a sudden stroke of genius.  
  
Schofield's heart skips a beat. _Alice._

"You alright Sco?" Blake waves his hand in front of Schofield's face.  
  
“I-I’m f-fine, it’s nothing.” Schofield stares down at the ground and puts his hand under his tunic, reassured by touching the cold metal of his tin. Running his hand through his hair he gulps loudly, pushing down the bile rising in his throat. “It’s just...why Alice?” Schofield croaks.  
  
“She reminds me of that mischievous Cheshire cat in the story. And the silly thing has found herself in a rabbit hole she can’t get out of, just like Alice in the book. And like us.” Blake reaches over and scratches her behind the ears, Alice purring loudly as if in agreement.  
  
 _Alice._ An Old French name in origin, meaning noble.  
  
 _Alice._ His wife. A wise, compassionate woman. The woman who he had left his family to be with, the woman he had given his heart to, the woman he had promised to take care of in sickness and health until death do them part.  
  
 _Alice._ A poor woman, married to a terrible man who she no longer knew when he returned on leave. A man who would disappear without a word for hours in the night, a man who made her suffer by refusing to speak or smile, a man who couldn't even come to terms with saying goodbye to his family, who was such a coward he could only leave behind a thin letter on the bed.   
  
“Alice it is then.” Schofield’s voice breaks, and he struggles to hold back tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slow burn but we're slowly getting there folks. thanks for reading, and feedback is always appreciated. also i made a twitter just for this fandom so talk blakefield to me at @florraa19 <3


End file.
